Watch out for 3hree Things every Tuesday, where Riley Breckenridge, drummer of Orange County's favorite local alt-rock band Thrice, gives his take on life in Southern California as an OC native.
I've had a particularly rough week, and while I'll spare you the details, I will assure that the “rough” part of that week was not petty bullshit. As a result, I came out of the weekend feeling creatively bankrupt, and when it came time to write this week's 3hree Things, I just didn't have it in me. Rather than going through the motions and writing a half assed column that I wouldn't be proud of, I decided to dig through some old posts that I'd written for one blog or another over the past couple of years, find three of my favorites, and share them with you guys.
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1) An Open Letter To Men's Health Magazine
Originally posted – 12/29/09
Dearest Men's Health (and other vague nouns such as Attitude and Emotions),
I never actually subscribed to your magazine. I was offered a “free” trial of your glossy collection advertisements for phony supplements and cilia-burning colognes disguised as health and fitness tips because I bought something “manly” (maybe a barbecue or a sword or something) and I accepted, because I thought, “I am a man. I enjoy health (as opposed to the contrary) and I am intrigued that you have enough things pertaining to said topics to actually warrant the idea a magazine that might increase one's fortitude in the areas implied.” Also, I like “free” stuff.
I enjoy the content of your magazine, save the advertisements, half-naked-men, and rehashed sex tips”for people who probably haven't been within five hundred yards of a vagina (due to restraining orders and the like) in their lives. Most of the recipes, circuits, and core-stabilizing exercises are neato. Thanks for that.
I DO NOT enjoy being sent a book (or sometimes, books) from Rodale Books (which are essentially rehashed articles from your magazine disguised in hardcover form) as an additional “free trial” that arrive yearly, without return packaging. If I do not want these books (I don't) the onus to return them is mine. I have neither the desire, nor the required packaging, nor the disposable income to spend on shipping fees to send these items back to you.
I will be leaving the 37th incarnation of “Six Pack Abs” (I have a two pack…still, core bridges and “David Beckham's Ab-Blasting Secrets” be damned), the “Best Sex In The World” pamphlet (seriously…IN THE WORLD), and the “1,294 Sexy Women Confess What They Want In Bed” at my doorstep (hint: the answer is a penis and a man that isn't an asshole.) If you would like to keep me as a subscriber, you will send someone to pick this kindling up, ASAP. Otherwise, I will be using the pages of these ground-breaking pieces of literature to start the coals on my manly BBQ or to wipe my O-ring as I shed pounds the traditional way.
Best,
Man
2) Things I Don't Understand, Vol. 32564714329
Originally posted 01/28/08
After I finish my morning workout at the gym, I always head to the men's locker room to wash whatever funk (other people's sweat, boogers, butt butter, germs, etc) that has been transferred from the stationary bike handles, stretching mats, and ab machines to my hands.
I'm semi-germaphobic. I don't trust that the guy who was on the bike before me, who “fell” off of said bike, smelling like a turd in an ashtray, actually washed his hands after he cranked nuts and/or kneaded his ball bag, pre-workout. I have to wash my hands, and that requires a trip to the bathroom.
The men's locker room is an awful place. It smells like steamed turds, armpits, and whatever the coolest AXE body wash is at the moment (probably Arctic Eagle Musk Ice, Rainforest Blue Date Rape Chowder, or Uptown Spicebeast.) I make sure to walk in, eyes to the ground, move quickly through the athlete's foot spray mist, and quickly run the gauntlet of half nude dudes to the bathroom. When I get to the sinks, I have to make sure one is available, so my gaze moves from my feet to the level of the sinks, and that's when I see the exact same thing four out of five days a week.
A 50-year-old man shaving.
Butt naked.
It's not always the same guy, it's not always the same sink, and it's not always a 50-year-old, but it's never anyone younger, which makes me wonder if there was some sort of “How To Shave Your Face“ manual that came out in the '40s and '50s (that was discontinued shortly thereafter) that said:
STEP 1: Remove all clothing.
STEP 2: Apply shaving cream to face.
STEP 3: Widen stance for optimum balance.
STEP 4: Dangle penis and scrotum on sink top.
STEP 5
: Shave face.
It makes about as much sense to me as taking your pants off to change a flat tire or putting on a motorcycle helmet to take a shit, and I'm wondering just how clean my hands are getting if they're being washed in a sink that has been dusted with geriatric yam bags.
3) An Open Letter To The Neo-Hippie Pile Of Woman That Apparently Had An Issue With My Existence Yesterday
Originally posted on 8/13/10
There I stood, with my cart in the toiletries aisle, perusing the body washes and shampoos (all of which were eco-friendly, mind you, before you get your overgrown pubic hair in a tangle over the ethics of my shopping) when you walked directly AT me. It was almost as if you were going to walk through me. Noting your spirit and determination, I tried to move out of the way.
I tried to dodge you and your lemons-in-tubesocks mammaries that you had chosen to accentuate by wearing what appeared to be no less that forty-seven handmade necklaces that dangled at belt level. Unfortunately, as is often the case, I tried to get out of the way in the very same direction that you tried to go around me (after realizing that my cart and I were both solid objects.) Rather than waltzing back and forth in each other's way in the aisle with you, I opted to freeze, apologize (I said “Sorry.”) and let you pick the path of least resistance to your preferred body wash or shampoo.
That's when you said, “Excuse YOU.”
In either case, fuck you very much. I hope that the body wash you chose to wash the smug from your myriad flaps and folds gives you a rash that makes your butthole permanently gape like a dead bass' mouth.
I've had some fairly cunty things said to me in my 35 years on your planet, but that was one of the cuntier ones. Probably a Top Three Cuntiest Things Said To Me Of All-Time Ever That I Can Remember As I Type This. It was so cunty, that it's still gnawing at me a day later. So cunty, that it paralyzed me. So cunty, that even after the numbness wore off, I had to deep-breath myself out of throwing an apple at you.
I hope you do it again, to someone less compassionate and patient than me. Someone that verbally shakes the bitch crust out of your ears and eyes right then and there, and helps you realize that you're not the only person on Earth.
Best,
R
